


you can't go home again

by voksen



Category: Baccano!, Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Comment Fic, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2009-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I pretend that Weiss Kreuz took place in the 30s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can't go home again

Crawford hasn't been home for ten years.

The streets are familiar, but the rest has changed: the buildings are dirtier, the slums bigger, the people hungrier - Chicago has grown up while he's been gone.

He pauses at a squat gym-cum-auto-shop, newly shabby, and lingers for a while, allowing himself to think about the past in a way he normally does not. He comes, amused, to the exact conclusion he knows Eszet wants: there is nothing for him here and everything for him with them. Eventually, he turns away.

Something crashes behind him; he looks back to see glass falling from a broken window and a heavily-built blond man in a white suit storming out of the shop door.

There's something familiar about him, but before Crawford can pin it down, his mind tingles with warning and his hand curls into a fist of its own volition.

An instant later, the man calls out, changing course to stalk towards him. "You! Hey, hey! Ahh, you make me angry! How can you walk down my street with that face? How can you think you're safe right in front of me? _Hey_!"

Crawford considers his revolver, but the possibilities branching off from there are not as bright as he wants - and then there's no time. He ducks the first punch almost too early, surprising a growl and an _I'll kill you!_ out of his unexpected opponent, then brings his own fists up to block the second.

They're both good: the other man is stronger and fueled by crazed bloodlust, but Crawford is faster and he sees the strikes before they're conceived. Circling, they exchange jabs; the blond is laughing now, still intent on murder. Crawford, calm, collected, turns him gradually to face the sun, then knocks him flat with a feint and a check hook.

Behind him, the door slams again. He knows without looking this time that it's another blond - this one younger, thinner, stained coverall instead of white suit, still dangerous.

"Ladd! Bro!"

The newcomer goes on at no small length, but Crawford doubts it's anything important - aside from the first word, which explains the familiarity of the man he punched out: he's Ladd Russo. How _interesting_ to meet an old friend who's said to have just the sort of connections Crawford needs to talk to, here, outside the old gym where they had once boxed together. Crawford doesn't believe in fate - he chooses his own futures - but sometimes the word _coincidence_ seems a little strained.

He's still talking: "A guy like you shouldn't exist! Why should there be two?! It's sad, sad, sad!" Crawford glances back to see him tossing something metallic over and over, spinning it faster as he closes.

There's a brilliant flash somewhere behind Crawford's eyes - he's somewhere else, some _when_ else, trapping a katana between his palms - then it fades just as suddenly and he's back in Chicago, holding an oversized wrench, hands stinging from the impact. He shoves the mechanic away with all his strength, sending him stumbling back a few feet, then tosses the wrench at him hard enough that he staggers again as he catches it.

When he turns back, Ladd, still slightly dazed, is just sitting up. Crawford's mind flares with possibilities: he shoots Ladd dead, the Russos try to come after him; he lets Ladd get up, Ladd goes for a shotgun in the car next to them; he punches Ladd, the mechanic tries for him again.

What he does is hold out his hand just as Ladd hauls himself up, prompting a startled laugh. "Brad Crawford," he says.

"Hey, hey _heyheyhey_ ," Ladd says, interrupting his own laughter to stare at Crawford and wipe a smear of blood off his nose. "You! Yeah, yeah! I know you!"

Ladd Russo was never quite sane, but Crawford doesn't remember it like this. It seems Ladd, too, has grown up while he's been gone.

"Yeah, you know me," Crawford answers, forcing his voice back into the flat, nasal accent of his childhood.

"Aahhh!" The revelation seems to excite Ladd even more. "And you're wearing white! And with that kind of insolent look and punch! Should I kill you yet? I can't decide!"

Crawford knows Ladd won't kill him at all, but he straightens his suit and smiles; the setting sun, glinting off his glasses, covers the fact that it doesn't reach his eyes. It's time to get to work.

"Do you know where Huey Laforet is?"


End file.
